Daredevils: Calderis
by Arcsquad12
Summary: The desert world of Calderis comes under sustained attack as the Third Aurelian Crusade sweeps across Subsector Aurelia. Sergeant Major Merrick and the soldiers of the Vendoland Guard are redeployed to the planet to protect the world's significant natural resources. However, the threat from without may be less dangerous than the threat from within.
1. Prologue

**DAREDEVILS: CALDERIS**

 _By the year 004.M42, the Third Aurelian Crusade had entered its second stage. As the war for the Meridian System continued, the violence threatened to spread across the Subsector. The neighbouring systems of Typhon and Calderis, hinterlands compared to the sector capital, came under renewed attacks by local uprisings and xenos incursions. With Angel Forge, the subsector's primary manufacturing facility, irreparably damaged, the defense of the outer systems became a new priority. The Imperium sought to secure its supply lines to the sector's capital. Particular attention was paid to Calderis, and its considerable natural resources._

 _With reinforcements pouring into the killing grounds of Meridian, several veteran Imperial Guard regiments were reassigned to defend Calderis. Learning their lessons from the early years of the Crusade, Segmentum Command would take no chances with the subsector's outer systems. The defense of Calderis would be paramount to the continuation of the Aurelian Crusades. As both a source of materiel, and as an Adeptus Astartes recruiting world, Calderis became the lynchpin of the subsector's defenses._

 _Of peculiar note is Segmentum Command's failure to inform the Blood Ravens, the Emperor's own Space Marines, of the arrangement. Needless to say, tensions remained high between the recruiting world's wardens and the occupying force..._

 _ **Excerpt from "The Early Crusades of M42 (Inquisitor M. Adrastia)**_


	2. Spirit of the Sands: That Old New Smell

**Spirit of the Sands**

* * *

 **That New Old Smell**

Wadden Hurst dragged his fingers through his hair as he hurried down the corridors that ran the length of the _Praedo Imperialis_. The Universe Class mass conveyer was an immense transport ship, stretching twelve kilometers from engine packed stern to armoured prow. For the past week, it had been the home of dozens of Imperial Guard regiments, en route from the Meridian system to the edge of Subsector Aurelia. Despite its vast size, the half a million guardsmen aboard the vessel were still crammed into tight living quarters and narrow hallways.

The Vendoland Veteran Guard, rechristened just before embarking, occupied three decks towards the prow of the vessel. As he pushed through the crush of people, several guardsmen noticed him and saluted. He wished they would stop doing that. Before leaving Meridian, a resupply ship had arrived at Capital Spire. Its docking orders were overdue by years, but the men aboard had felt no time change. The Warp was a fickle tide that way. Despite whatever abnormalities had plagued the ship's passage to the subsector, its cargo was a godsend to the Vendolanders. At long last, they had received reinforcements from home.

Initially, there had been four Vendoland regiments deployed to the subsector: the 203rd and 85th Infantry, the 36th Recon and the 46th Armoured. Apart from one other resupply nearly five years prior, the four regiments had slowly been whittled down through attrition before being absorbed into one single fighting force. Through careful deliberation, the replacement officers had agreed to maintain the regiment's force organization, rather than breaking them back up. With their numbers replenished, the VVG comprised just under ten thousand men, heavy as far as Imperial regiments went.

Hurst's commanding officer, Captain Lars Uther, was waiting in his office. It was more of a cupboard, really, with a small desk and a dingy light fixture that pulsed in time with the ship's engines. Uther beckoned him inside, "Come in, sergeant. And close the door behind you."

The captain looked older. _So do I_ , Hurst realized. It had only really become apparent when the fresh faced replacements had arrived. He could hardly believe it, but the tenth anniversary of their deployment to the subsector had passed in transit. Most of the original soldiers were edging on thirty, now. Uther had well since passed forty, and it showed. They were the old men now, surrounded by children fresh out of basic.

"How's the passage treating you, Hurst?" Uther asked. He rummaged across his desk, strewn with order scripts and half finished reports. "There's some recaff if you'd like."

Hurst eyed the pot on the shelf, and said, "Passable, captain. I'll hold on the caffeine, though."

"If you want something to do, you could take my job," said Uther. He finally found the document he was looking for and raised it triumphantly, "I know how much you love protocol, Hurst. This whole officer shuffle could have gone better. I mean, who thought it was a good idea to make me Battalion Commander?"

"You're a good leader, sir," said Hurst. _And that's not why you sent for me_ , "Major Lester couldn't have picked a better candidate."

"Your flattery is noted, sergeant," Uther said sarcastically. He handed the document to Hurst, "But, that's not why I called you in."

"I didn't think so, captain."

The document was sealed with an insignia instantly familiar to Hurst. Uther gave him a knowing look, "The replacements brought along a sack full of family correspondence from home. This one ended up in my pile by mistake."

Hurst raised the letter in the dim light, "You know what that is, Sergeant Hurst?"

"That's the noble seal of the Duke of Raiylis. Why is it addressed to me, captain?"

"Don't play stupid, Hurst, you're not the only one who's noticed how the replacements look at you. They know who you are. You might have kept your heritage a secret for this long, but one letter from your father was all it took for the rest of us old geezers to figure it out."

Hurst lowed the letter and sighed, "So what is it, then, sir? Am I to be shipped back home to my family in a box, expedited delivery? I joined the Guard to get away from my family. Blueblood or not, I couldn't keep living in their shadows."

"So you joined up to prove yourself, then?"

"I joined up so my life might have some meaning beyond waiting for the eleven relatives ahead of me waiting to replace my father might die. I wanted to earn something, I wanted to be useful. I wanted to prove I wasn't just some pampered royal arse-wipe who got where he was by virtue of his heritage."

Two heartbeats of tense silence. Hurst was on edge. _Don't do this, Lars, please. Don't take this away from me._

The captain scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I never did get a good look at that letter, Hurst. I can't remember where I put it down. You know how big these ships are. So easy to misplace something."

Hurst frowned, parsing Uther's comment, "I take it you want something in return, sir?"

Uther plucked the letter from Hurst's hand and crumpled it into a ball, "I have no interest in sending one of my best NCOs home just because their daddy has pull with the planetary government. The defense of the Imperium goes beyond Vendoland. We serve a higher purpose now, as Guardsmen for life."

"I strive to live up to that ideal sir."

Uther raised a finger, "That said, I do need something from you, sergeant. I'm running a battalion now, which means I'm also short a lieutenant. I have all these new OCS graduates looking to make their mark, but I need someone I can trust. Hunder's taking over company command, which means I need a new lieutenant to take over supervision of the grenadier platoon-"

"And you want me to do it," said Hurst, finishing the captain's sentence. He shook his head, "While I appreciate your request, captain, part of my reason for enlisting as a grunt was so I could work my way up on my own terms."

Uther's tone lowered to a threat, "Oh, that wasn't a request, lieutenant, that was an ultimatum. I put through the paperwork for you to receive a field promotion yesterday morning, and it was ratified by Command last night. As of this moment you are now 2nd lieutenant in the 4th company. It's either that, or I miraculously find that piece of paper and agree to send you back to Vendoland."

Hurst was taken aback. He'd never seen Uther like this before, and the change shocked him. Choosing his next words with exceptional care, he said, "Captain, with all due respect, this is extortion."

"So it is, Hurst," Uther said. He offered his hand, "Congratulations on your promotion, lieutenant."

* * *

The _Praedo Imperialis's_ light fixtures cast the ship's enormous cargo hold in an unpleasant blue that made the sweat on people's heads glow. Next to Merrick, Lenham Remer's normally shaggy hair was slicked back with moisture. Together, they and other men followed their new quartermaster, Barton, as he marked off each company's inventory restock.

While they walked, Barton repeated his canned speech in a droning voice, "Once resources are allocated to your unit, it remains the responsibility of the company sergeant major, meaning you, to oversee proper distribution of equipment and to maintain accurate reports of all munitions expenditures. If I see one more report about recharging power packs on an open flame-"

"Then you will see each man responsible sent to the nearest commissariat office for disciplinary action," Remer said, completing Barton's sentence, "I can't remember where I've heard that before."

Barton turned on the corporal, "You're not the one who needs to explain to the Munitorum why their hardware keeps exploding at a recharging station. If I catch anyone cooking their packs, you can kiss your service ticket on the resupply waitlist goodbye."

"We'll handle it, quartermaster," Merrick reassured him, "Won't be much need for campfires on Calderis. Way I hear it, we can roast our own food on sunlight alone."

Barton jabbed a finger at Merrick, "You had better hope that is true, sergeant major. Because I'll know if you're lying."

Without another word, he spun around and went to meet with the next company. After he did so, a team of heavy lift servitors moved in to ferry the supplies onto the 4th company's Devourer-class dropship. Keeping everything loaded for immediate deployment meant the _Imperialis's_ loiter time in a system could be cut down by several hours. Since the battleship _Aramatus_ had vanished with her entire escort, Imperial Navy vessels were taking no chances during transit.

Their destination, Calderis, was far more stable than Meridian, but it was still a hot zone. Even before the Ork and Tyranid incursions, raiders and savage tribes had been a constant threat against the scattered Imperial settlements. The latter were a point of contention with regards to the Guard's deployment. Calderis, like the other inhabited planets in the subsector, were Space Marine recruiting worlds, and those same wild men were the recruiting stock of the Blood Ravens. Exterminating them would aid the Guard, but could potentially doom the chapter.

Merrick couldn't help but feel like they were walking into a minefield. Meridian was primarily an Imperial hive world, but there was no doubt that the Blood Ravens laid claim to Calderis, planetary governor or not. With the size of the Guard deployment to the system, they were going to step on a lot of power armoured toes. Merrick had the privilege to have served alongside the Blood Ravens on more than one occasion, and he did not want to be on the receiving end of their wrath.

Remer pushed aside the lid of one box and let out a long whistle, "What I wouldn't give for one of those." He pulled out a brand new melta gun, its emitter polished to a mirror shine.

"Well, at least Gellry won't be alone in the risk of blowing his face off anymore," said Merrick, making mention of the company's only living plasma gunner. _Not for much longer_ , he thought, peaking into the weapons crate. The replacements were packing some serious firepower. Not that Merrick would ever give up his hellgun.

Merrick signed off on the script handed to him by Barton's aide, and with a nod, he and Remer headed back to the barracks deck. They passed by replacements in PT gear running laps around the ship. The recruits wanted to make a good impression on the veterans, Merrick reckoned. He still wasn't sure what to make of them. He had fought with the same men for so long, seen so many comrades die. He could still vividly remember his first battle. The new meat were in for hell.

"Your pack all stowed away, boss?" Remer asked casually.

"I did it yesterday, when you should have. Right after I told you to check the services at the baggage train for a haircut."

"And end up looking like you, boss?" Remer's grin was infectious. Merrick gave him a shove.

"Wiseass."

In the common area, 4th company had settled in for the nightly pict screenings. Merrick hadn't watched a good entertainment pict in ages. Civilian life was increasingly alien to him, and the luxuries of daily pict feeds and gourmet food had no place in the Guard. The replacements had brought them along, and the vets had promptly snatched the entire case of tapes. This one was apparently by some famous artisan named Charles S. Gottorieve, who had some very interesting ideas on what exactly the Emperor's angels were capable of.

"Why is he doing _back-flips_?" said Mol Lannik his face a mixture of bemusement edging on tears, "I mean, maybe, _maybe_ , wearing a jump pack, if the thrusters were corkscrewed, that might work. That's a thousand kilos of ceramite to move."

Kalan Garrett leaned over, trying to cover up his sniggers, "Maybe it's just carapace plate painted up to look like ceramite. Wouldn't be the only thing he raided from our armoury. He's carrying a flipping multilaser turret! And it's firing bullets!"

Remer hissed at them to be quiet. He kept silent for about twenty seconds before he burst into hysterics. Merrick joined in the chorus of howls that erupted from the crowd. In the pict, a mighty terminator was dragged off into the air by a single Tyranid spore mine. Weight be damned, this idiot had never seen a Xenos in his life, let alone a fully armoured Astartes.

What followed was an hour and a half of jeering and riffing on an exceptionally bad pict that offered more entertainment through its mocking than the artisan had probably intended. Merrick almost felt bad for Gottorieve, if he ever got stopped laughing. It had been a long time since any of the guardsmen had had a chance to relax. It wouldn't last, so they made the most of it.

Hurst quietly dipped into the room, seating himself behind Merrick. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he asked, "How's the cap? Still on about the new job?"

"More than that, Uther looks like he's on the verge of a mental break. Can't say I blame him."

"Quiet!" Remer whispered loudly, "I'm trying to laugh here!"

His voice lower, Merrick muttered, "So what did he want you for?"

Hurst shrugged, "Oh, this and that. He found some letter addressed to me, then proceeded to blackmail me into a promotion. The usual."

"Wait, what?"

"I'll tell you about it later. I-" Hurst trailed off mid sentence. Merrick glanced back and saw Wadden was fixated on the screen. " _What is this?"_

* * *

Elle Connor felt heavy. Despite the late hour, she was running laps along the ship's length. Behind her, first and second platoons from 7th company were dragging behind, failing to keep up with her pace. Stripped down to just an undershirt and jogging shorts, her black tied into a bun, few would recognize her as the fearsome commissar who had almost betrayed her attached regiment.

Sweat made her shirt clung to her like a wet rag. Her augmetic spinal cord pressed against the fabric, sticking out more than she'd like. While the augmetic itself never tired, the body around it certainly did. Despite the enhanced strength it gave her, it was also a sign of weakness that she hated to show. She was a commissar, charged with inspiring her men to acts of valour in the face of adversity. She shouldn't have been hit in the first place, she had been stupid. It was a weight she had to carry, in more ways than one.

"Hurry up back there!" she yelled back to the trailing platoons, "You either finish as a group, or you do another lap!"

"You heard the ma'am, double time!" hollered Sergeant Flinn. Apart from himself, Rast, Irvyn, and Mogger, the rest of 7th company was comprised entirely of replacements.

And Gren of course, if that waste of a guardsman still counted.

Connor did not hate Gren, but she held no sympathy for the man. Heris Gren had simply ceased to function as an effective soldier. His only failure was caring too much for his fellow man, and that had broken him. He was a liability as a sergeant, so Connor had stripped him of his rank and demoted him to a regular trooper, and then placed him on a reserve roster. Building him back into an effective soldier would take a long time.

And that was what Connor intended to do. Since the Lord Commissar Gardus had reassigned her from the 4th to the 7th company, her objective had been to whip the new meat into a ready fighting force. With Caius dead and the company all but destroyed, she was working from the ground up. They were children, still. They would die as children if she failed.

She started with exercise. Nothing built cohesion quicker than constant, repetitive exercise. They would grow as a team, pooling their resentment of her, and she in turn would then redirect that anger against the Imperium's foes. Daily laps around the _Praedo_ had become the norm for her. Two full laps around the ship became so routine she had managed to time her checkpoints within a few seconds difference. Central concourse after twelve minutes. Engine housing after one hour. Observation deck at an hour-thirty. Back to barracks after two. Repeat. Her reinforced shoulders made it feel like she was carrying a full pack.

More than anything it helped take her mind off of things. Her reputation preceded her. She made no attempts to hide her past, but making sure it did not come between her and her job could be difficult. Two years earlier, Connor had been involved in a scandal involving treasonous elements of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Through a series of shady deals that had replaced the former command structure of the 85th Vendoland with its current form, she had fallen into a web of conspiracies that found her putting her career on the line to uncover heresy within the Mechanicus ranks on Meridian.

It had cost her greatly. Her reputation was in tatters, her body almost destroyed, and her relationship with Captain Uther pushed to the brink. She had betrayed Lars in an attempt to keep him safe, and the truth had shattered his trust in her. She deserved every bit of her punishment. Her only method of atonement was to bury herself in her duties, and to live up to the example a commissar should set. If that meant being sidelined to babysit walking targets, so be it.

Twelve minutes: central concourse. The central concourse was practically a bazaar, where deckhands and naval ratings traded in various goods under strict supervision from the naval arm of the commissariat. Lawful transactions were tolerated there; nobody wanted to incur the wrath of the ship's watchmen. Meanwhile, the lower decks were off limits to passengers. Nobody knew what they contained, and nobody who dared to look ever came back. She doubted even the ship's captain knew who or what dwelled in those dark corridors.

One hour: engine housing. The _Praedo Imperialis's_ engine cluster was nearly a kilometer high. An entire community was built around the six giant thrusters, entirely self-contained from the rest of the vessel. Shantytowns housed the families of the work crews, who toiled daily in maintaining peak engine efficiency. The rickety shacks were bolted onto the sides of the thrusters, connected by a series of bridges and catwalks that crossed between the disparate dwellings. Lubricants were worth their weight in gold among the workers, who kept up a steady black market trade with the various guardsmen who brooked passage on the ship. Connor had made a mental note to root out any illicit trading between her regiment and the engineers.

Hour-thirty: observation deck. The name was misleading. There was little worth observing. Every soldier knew that the warp was perilous to behold, so during jumps, psychically amplified shields lowered over the transparent alloy viewports. The deck just became another grey hallway with slightly more elaborate ornamentation.

Two hours: barracks. Elle finally stopped to catch her breath. She braced her hands on her knees, feeling the burn deep in her muscles. She needed to stay strong. She needed to set an example.

She needed to watch her time.

Stretching out, she looked back. There was no sign of the platoons behind her. She had outpaced them again. _Shit_ , she cursed herself. It was one thing to make the men hate her, but if she lost focus, then all her efforts would be for nothing.

Connor waited for five minutes before she caught sight of the men. Flinn was leading them, yelling himself hoarse to spur the men onwards. Behind, Rast followed up 2nd platoon, moving as fast as his limping gait would allow. His augmetic leg was built for running, and at slower speeds, the inbuilt shock absorbers gave his step an exaggerated bounce.

The men were bent double by the time they stopped. Flinn, gasping for air, and drenched to the bone, apologized to Connor, "Sorry, ma'am. We'll do better, swear it on the Aquila. You want us to go again?"

Hands on her hips, Connor looked over the sorry lot, exhausted from the run. "No, sergeant," she said, "That's enough for today. Give them the rest of the night off. I want everyone ready for muster in the morning. Fall out."

"Aye, ma'am. 7th company, dismissed!"

As the guardsmen dispersed, Connor grabbed Flinn by the arm. "Where is Gren, sergeant?" There was no sight of the old man. Flinn's flushed face drained of colour instantly.

"Find him before I do, sergeant, or he won't make muster at all," she said, letting the threat hang in the air.

Flinn swallowed, "Aye, ma'am." In a flash he was off, back the way they had come.

Connor took a swig from her canteen and threw it against the wall. It looked like she had another lap to do after all.

* * *

Warp travel was always unstable, but the _Praedo Imperialis's_ voyage went smoothly. That didn't stop the shack bolted to the side of the tertiary engine from rattling violently. Heris Gren ignored the shaking, and focused on the nothingness.

His world was silence. There were no thoughts, no memories, only a numbness that dulled his senses to the horrors he'd witnessed. The seer placed her hand on his forehead, sending a fresh wave of comfort through his body. She watched him sink back into the embrace, her slight hands tracing their way over his scarred head.

She had found Gren at his lowest. He had been drowning in sorrow, haunted by the people he could not save. Tamm, Mory, Marlo. So many faces, all staring at him, accusing him of leaving them to die. Gren had screamed to drown out the voices before his world had gone black. He had awoken in the small shack, with no knowledge of how he got there. A figure in a green cloak had appeared, her face hidden under the hood.

At first he was afraid, but without a word, they had spoken to one another. Somehow, he knew she wished to comfort him, and he had allowed her to touch him. When she did, his fears washed away, leaving him in the embrace of emptiness. No fear, no nightmares. His mind was his own once again.

After that, Gren had spent every hour of free time at the seer's shack. The days became more bearable after that, but so had his desire to see her. There were never words exchanged, only understanding. She healed, and he stayed. Eventually, his needs overpowered his duties. At the back of his mind, Gren knew that he had broken formation during the exercise, but his concerns seemed miniscule. He was at peace here.

Air from the engine's cooling vents nipped at the curtain that covered the entrance to the shack. It kept the noise down, but there were always arguments outside. People fighting over grease canisters, trying to shake down passengers, or bartering their meager belongings with the food disposal servants from the upper decks. Gren slept through it all.

Outside, another commotion broke out. A voice was calling for someone. It sounded familiar. The voice shouted again, more forcefully this time. The sound of lasfire. Gren's reverie snapped with the hiss of the weapons discharge. He sat upright, brushing off the seer's hands. The commotion had died down, and the voice spoke one more time.

"Where is he? Show me."

The sound of footsteps on deck plating. They had found him. Without the seer's touch, the dread came flooding back into Gren's body. This was it, wasn't it? They had come to kill him, put him out of his misery. The curtain rustled and was pushed back. Gren braced for the inevitable.

"Gren?"

It was Flinn. Gren fell back with relief. Flinn stepped into the room, his lasgun aimed at the seer, backing her into the corner. He offered his free hand to Gren, "Come on, let's get you out of here."

Gren looked back to the seer. His mind heard nothing. "I'm not going without her, lad. I need this."

"Listen, if you want a woman, go to the baggage train, on your own time. We need to get back to barracks, Connor's on the warpath."

"She's not like that!" Gren protested, "She's... she's helping me."

"Helping you how? Gren, you could get shot for deserting an exercise. What does she do that is worth dying for?"

The seer stepped forward, "I can speak for myself, sergeant. This man's soul is in pain. I take that pain from him, and offer him comfort."

Gren steadied himself on Flinn and leaned closer, "It's difficult to explain. Please, lad."

"Sergeant," Flinn corrected him, "and I don't care. You're coming with me, and she is staying here."

Gren's eyes welled up. Flinn had gone through hell and back to drag his sorry self to safety back on Meridian. And here he was doing it again. He was no longer the young gun Gren watched over. It was the other way around now. Flinn was the sergeant, and he was the stupid private.

"Yes... sergeant, you're right," Gren looked longingly at the seer.

"After you then, private, you still have a lap to finish," As they left, Flinn took one last look at the seer, "You follow us, and I shoot."

After they were well away from the engine housing, Flinn erupted on Gren, "What the hell were you thinking, Gren? You know what the commissar is like!"

"Peace of mind, sir," Gren muttered. Already, the seer's touch had worn off. His moroseness returned with a vengeance. "Peace from this Emperor forsaken existence."

Flinn softened his voice as they jogged along. "There is no peace for us, Gren. That's not our life anymore. You get a few hours here and there where you can pretend to be something else, but it is just a lie you tell yourself. Our normal is not her normal. She can't help you. But I can try."

Gren looked over his shoulder. The seer stood at the far end of the hallway. When he looked again, she was gone. And Heris Gren returned to his state of normal.

* * *

Author's Note: And we're back! Onto new and bloodier things. Here's hoping you all enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. As always, I encourage you to read my earlier stories in Daredevils: Meridian, and to read my friend DarkEldar's excellent Nothing But a List of Names to Mark His Ascension.


	3. SOTS: The Rock and the Oasis

**The Rock and the Oasis**

* * *

The Lamedon Dragoons prided themselves on being professional tankers. Their talents did little to stop their convoy's vox truck from bursting into flames. The convoy of sand haulers were thrown into chaos as their comms died and gunfire started peppering their hulls. One man foolishly stuck his head out, hoping to call another driver, only for a pinpoint shot to sever it from his shoulders. It was as though the dunes themselves had turned against them. The outriders screening the entire convoy simply vanished.

One by one, Commander Darnath Akrier's men were being picked off as the convoy pushed through the Siwal, Calderis's great dune sea. From his cupola atop the Leman Russ _Tiger Fang_ , he waved his sword and yelled himself hoarse, trying to corral the confused drivers into a defensive formation. In under a minute, the ten transports were reduced to just six. The smoking wrecks of the downed vehicles were swiftly swallowed by the Siwal. The wind swept aside any trace of their passing.

Akrier couldn't see a damned thing. It could either be xenos or bandits or the Archenemy for all he could tell in the growing sandstorm. A solid slug pinged off the cupola dangerously close to his hand. The other two tanks pulled up along the flanks of the convoy to better shield them from incoming fire. On their own, the sand haulers could easily outpace his squadron on the slippery dunes, but Akrier wasn't about to risk sending them on ahead. For safety, the convoy traveled at the slow speed his tanks could manage.

They needed to fight back, to show they weren't helpless. Only the constant pings of incoming fire belied their opponent's presence. " _Ardent Fury_ , rotate fifty degrees left, put a round through that dune," barked Akrier, thankful that the tank squadron's inter-vox was still functional, at least. The transports were deaf to their orders, panicking like a grox herd, however. A damned shepherd, that's what Akier was. He set aside his misgivings and watched as _Ardent Fury's_ main gun turned and lobbed a shot into the fragile sand ridge, blasting a massive plume a hundred feet in the air.

Akrier raised his magnoculars, hoping to see corpses on the dune. His enthusiasm eroded faster than the impact crater. Nothing. He cursed under his breath and dropped back into the hold as the turret rattled from further hits. In the hold, Del and Vikner, Akrier's sponson gunners, panned back and forth, hoping to spy a target in their narrow view slits. Benson, his driver, seemed unconcerned with their predicament. He just kept pace, pushing through the Siwal.

This is ridiculous, Akrier thought. _Tiger Fang_ was appropriately named, being armed to the teeth. Her battle cannon, twin heavy bolter sponsons, and the hull mounted lascannon were more than enough to devastate any enemy that came into sight, and yet here they were, hunkered down and taking potshots from some bastard they couldn't even see. Akrier keyed the inter-vox again and addressed the squadron, "All units, this is One. Button up and keep the transports in formation. I don't want anyone poking their heads out while these krags are on us. Once we pass the next ridgeline, it's a straight shot to Argus Base. Anyone else who falls out of formation is on their own. Hopefully the haulers see what we're doing and stay in line. We keep going and don't stop, understood?"

Akrier's subordinates acknowledged, and through the vox he could hear the faint sound of hatches sealing, all but drowned out by the roar of the tanks' engines. "Benson, keep her steady," he added, receiving a thumbs up from the driver in return.

Night fell quickly on Calderis, turning from scorching daytime heat to frigid darkness. The wind picked up, howling against the sides of the Russ, sand rattling against the armour. After carefully sliding down the side of a steep dune, they at last hit flat ground. Benson brought the Russ up to speed, hopefully putting some distance between them and their ambushers. The tank shook with a dull thud. _Warbringer_ reported that another hauler had been struck. Before Akrier could respond, a sudden clang sounded in _Tiger Fang's_ hull, followed a nanosecond later by a second. It wasn't pretty.

A shot had passed clear through the tank's hull and out the other side. Halcyer, the tank's loader, was little more than a red paste, splattered across the hold. _Krag, they're packing some heavy firepower_ , Akrier realized with horror. Frantically, he keyed the inter-vox again, "All units, all units, _Tiger Fang_ has been hit. Enemy has anti-tank weaponry, I repeat, enemy has anti-armour capabilities. Proceed with extreme caution."

The sponson gunners were shaking. Akrier was shaking. Even Benson was coming undone, his driving becoming more erratic. Lank initially appeared calm, but it wasn't long before the commander noticed his main gunner was missing a chunk of his side and had died along with Halcyer. His blood pooled on the floor, dripping down into the shell magazine. Benson gunned the engine harder, ignoring Akrier's protests to slow down for the convoy. He wasn't waiting to take another shot like that.

 _Tiger Fang_ took three more high velocity rounds, each one punching through the armour with ease. Mercifully, none of the rounds hit the crew, but the sponsons were out of commission and the vox caster was a sparking mess. With no desire to poke his head out of the cupola, and no way to contact the rest of his squadron or the convoy, Akrier could only trust in Benson's driving to get them out of the Siwal and back to friendly lines.

* * *

Ertrand Crassus was glad to finally step off the dropship that had ferried him to Calderis's surface. The descent had been rapid, and incredibly rocky as a result. The navy transports weren't eager to stay in orbit very long. Scuttlebug on the ship had reached the colonel's ears that some ghost ship prowled the subsector, preying on isolated vessels. The memory of the battleship _Aramatus's_ disappearance and subsequent destruction had shaken the fleet, and they were apparently itching to be on the move. Crassus didn't blame the void jumpers for being anxious, but he would have preferred a less bumpy ride.

The shade of the Devourer's boarding ramp gave way to the blinding light of Calderis's morning sun. He quickly realized his men were horribly overdressed for the environment. Sweat was already pooling under his overcoat, likewise with the rest of his command staff. Around him, other dropships disgorged the regiment's infantry, vehicles and supplies. Groundside workers ran between the ships, assisting in the hasty offloading procedures. The regimental staff hurried under one of the canvas shelters to avoid the worst of the heat.

The landing zone was a wide stretch of flat desert that went on for miles. The ground was laid bare by the downward thrust of navy drop vessels, leaving only hard packed sand. Beyond the field Crassus saw endless rows of tents and prefabricated structures. Dozens, maybe hundreds of regiments must have been stationed there, in a vast tent city that spread out across the desert. Beyond that, rising along the horizon, sat Argus Settlement, Calderis's capital city.

Perhaps that was not the right word. Calderis was a city, true, but it paled in comparison to the great hive spires of Meridian. Despite the prestige that was typically associated with the title "planetary capital", Argus was tiny.

It was, however, built like a fortress. The three tiered settlement was built into the rock face of the Nikean Mesa. Its sandcrete walls were low but thick, and the narrow paths that cut through the stony desert could funnel attackers into well prepared killing fields. It was no wonder the settlement was chosen as the capital. Anyone threatening to take Argus would have been in for a vicious fight even before the Guard had arrived. With the Guard surrounding the approach, Argus was impregnable.

Crassus wondered how many of those troopers were fresh on their first deployment. He hadn't taken to his new soldiers very well. The colonel in him was glad to have the numbers, but the fighter in him kept whispering that they were still untested. Too many wet behind the ears children straight out of OCS looking to kiss up to the commander. It was a sentiment shared among the veteran members of the staff. Commissar Lord Gardus had made his disdain clear the moment the new adjutants had been assigned to the staff. Major Armand Lester muttered something under his breath to Captain Uther, who gave a short laugh.

"Murtonn," Crassus said, snapping his fingers. The adjutant appeared out of thin air, always shadowing his ocmmander. He'd managed to keep his old aide, at least. "Our liaison's name, what was it?"

Murtonn responded instantly, "Meve Nirobe, sir, 99F Corinthians."

"How will we recognize her?" Crassus said.

"Ceremonial battledress, Colonel."

"It won't be too difficult, I'd say, Ertrand," Lester pointed a group approaching them. They were hard to miss.

Clad in brightly polished bronze armour, thirteen guardsmen marched towards Crassus's staff in tight lockstep. The sun glinted off their armoured breastplates and the embossed tassels that hung from their waists. Each wore a full faced helmet, with rounded eye slits, adorned with various crests or animal hair. Each carried a long spear and had a small shield attached to their left vambrace. On closer inspection, their cuirasses were inlaid with gold and silver patterns that danced in the sunlight.

The Corinthians' tight formation split to form two overlapping lines, before halting in front of the Vendoland contingent. The lead soldier stepped forward, and took off her helmet. Her olive skinned face was all sharp angles, with narrow, confident eyes. Her hair was cropped short, save for two long braids the folded over top of her ears to join at the back. Her escort followed removed their helmets, all revealing similar features. They were like ancient statues given life,

The Corinthian tapped her forehead and gestured to Crassus. "First Captain Meve Nirobe, 99F Corinthians. Colonel Ertrand Crassus, and we are honoured to meet with veterans of the Meridian front."

Crassus attempted the Corinthian salute. When that failed, he fell back on simply signing the Aquila. "Well met, Captain Nirobe. This is my command staff. I apologize for our appearance, our descent was not the most pleasant experience, and this heat is not helping."

Nirobe's smile was almost unnoticeable. Almost. "No need to apologize, Colonel. To be candid, Calderis is little more than sand, sweat and promethium. These parade uniforms are more like wearing a kettle than armour. Colonel Batano is eager to speak with you. She authorized my honour guard to escort you to headquarters."

"I shall follow at your discretion, First Captain. A moment first, however." Crassus looked to Uther, Lester's protege, "Captain, remain here and oversee the offloading. Find out where they're billeting us. Take Myka and Kalven with you, break them in a bit."

"Aye sir," Uther nodded and waved over the two junior staff lieutenants. Gardus leered at them as they went by, but stayed silent. Armand cast an amused glance at Gardus, which the commissar did not reciprocate.

"After you, First Captain," Crassus nodded to Nirobe. The Corinthian spun around and roared at the honour guard to move out.

* * *

4th company's lieutenants had already gathered by the time Uther arrived with two replacements in tow. "New platoon leaders?" Hurst thought aloud. The others gave him a look of dread.

"I hope not," said lieutenant Hunder, giving voice to their expressions. Since the replacements had arrived and Uther had been pushed up to battalion, Jorin Hunder was running the 4th company. He knew full well they were still down two lieutenants after Whelm and Devin had fallen back on Meridian. Tall and serious, he wasn't exactly comfortable with putting the lives of the enlisted men in the hands of green officers. Hurst was an exception. A new officer, obviously, but a proven squad sergeant with years of exemplary service. As far as Hunder was concerned, Hurst was their best bet. Not these wet under the ear boys.

That's what they were, boys. Before replacements had arrived, there wasn't a man in the regiment under thirty, yet now it seemed like half the Vendolanders' ranks were barely older than teenagers. Pierce and Lonnis, the other two remaining 4th company lieutenants, agreed with him. The men needed officers they could respect, and the recruits had a long way to go before they earned the right to lead.

The four Vendolanders saluted before Uther waved them at ease. "I feel like I need to strip in this heat. Where's Merrick?" he asked.

"Offloading ammunition and having words with the quartermaster," said Lonnis, pointing over his shoulder to the drop carrier.

"Well, he can keep doing that," said Uther. He pointed to his followers, "Lieutenants Myka and Kalven. Don't worry, they're regimental staff, not company. Hunder, I expect you to find suitable men to fill any command roles you need. Send me the names and I'll file the paperwork."

"Will do, Captain." Hunder internally sighed with relief. They weren't screwed after all. "Any idea where they're sticking us?"

"I'll tell you when I find out the specifics. From the looks of things they're not housing anyone in the city proper. We're on canvas and prefabs until we get our orders. Argus is just a staging area."

"They're not letting anyone in the city, sir?" Lonnis asked.

Uther shook his head. "Nope. From what I've been told, the planetary governor wants to limit Guard interactions with the locals. Calderis is classified as a feudal world, and the governor feels any outsider influence might disrupt the promethium production."

Pierce spoke up, "So they're living in sandstone huts while operating modern refineries? Am I the only one seeing the contradiction?"

"You're not alone. Seems that the Guard command staff on Calderis convinced him to make some concessions. Word is Commander Batano had a word with the governor and scared him out of his seat. Off duty troopers have access to the outer markets of Argus, but that is it. Anything beyond the outskirts is off limits."

"Fair enough," Pierce shrugged.

"So tents it is, then," Hunder said, veering them back on topic.

Uther nodded, "Right. Ground crews mentioned they've got an open plot about two kilometers east of here where we can set up. Also, I want the men in desert gear. We're too bulky and I won't have anyone dropping from a heat stroke in this sun. Sand capes and short sleeves. Carapace plate stays on, though, clear?"

"Clear as sky, sir."

* * *

"Pius's balls!" Remer cursed as the ammo crate teetered over, "I thought augmetics were supposed to be super strong, Alek." He bent over and started gathering the lasgun power packs.

"Stronger than normal fingers, yes, but that doesn't make me an Ogryn, Len," Alek snapped back. "Besides, they got caught on the handle. I think one of the actuators seized up."

Together the two hoisted the container and resumed their walk. "Well," Remer said between grunts, "I don't think we can count that towards our luck. Only the fleshy bits."

"I'm so glad you care about my wellbeing," said Alek. It was a long running bet among the Daredevils that, for each injury Alek sustained and survived, another year was added to the squad's continued survival. The man was a magnet for enemy fire, probably due in no small part to his cross training as both a vox man and a corpsman. The only thing more impressive than his injury count, which included several augmetic fingers, was his talent for surviving said wounds.

"Hear that, boss man?" Remer called, "I'm caring!"

A few meters away, Merrick yelled back, "You're an inspiration, Remer. Now be sure to crack a casing next time you drop that crate so we might have some peace and quiet after you blow yourself to bits."

"I'll be standing right next to him!" Alek protested.

"Yeah, but you'll live."

The whole desert was a city of tents. Long throughways cut across the muster fields to allow trucks and tanks to pass by. Merrick was finding it surprisingly difficult to adjust to how flat Calderis was, after the vertical hell that was the Meridian warzone. For miles in every direction, there was nothing but sand and tents, with the occasional prefab building laid down for motor depots, company headquarters and supply dumps. An armoured column of Leman Russes, painted in conspicuous navy blue heraldry trundled past as Merrick lugged a pair of boltgun ammo drums to the cache. The midday sun was already making him sweat. He had newfound appreciation for his baldness. Remer's black mop was already drenched.

Guardsmen were everywhere, all coming and going through the staging area. It was far more than Merrick had expected to see on such a backwater. The overview briefing had said that less than twenty five million Imperial citizens lived across Calderis, and that Argus settlement was the biggest one on the planet. There were probably more Guard than citizens on the rock, Merrick figured. He recognized a few regiments, the tiger striped Kydoran Outriders and the ever present Maveron divisions in particular, but far more were new to him. Bronze plated women with ornate helmets stood out the most. Merrick pitied how sweltering their ornamental gear must have been in the blazing heat.

"Merrick!"

Hurst came jogging over, with Ennis following close behind. Ennis was the sergeant for Trench Skipper squad, 4th company's second grenadier detachment after the Daredevils. He was a short man with a long face and bags under his eyes that gave him a permanently gaunt look. Merrick nodded to him and addressed Hurst, "What can I do you for, Waddy?"

"Have you seen anyone from the Skippers?" Hurst asked, "Ennis is missing a few. Do you have anyone here helping you unload?"

Merrick shook his head. "Haven't seen them. Are they new?"

"Unfortunately yes," Ennis spat. Grenadiers led the offensives, given the task of punching through lines for the follow up squads to exploit. Ennis's Skippers embodied the harsh life their title bestowed. Heavy armour and big guns only counted for so much before someone scored a lucky hit.

Merrick frowned "Hunder didn't give you any new vets?"

"I have Faravel and Mordham," Ennis raising two fingers, "4th took a lot of casualties at Angel Forge. That's all Hunder could give me while he spread everyone else out."

"Do you need anyone?" Hurst said. "Say the word and I'll transfer some of the Daredevils over."

"I don't want your men, I want the runts to fall in line. No offense, lieutenant, but Kippler can keep his mob under control better than I could. I don't need a killer like Vornas watching my back."

Hurst looked at Merrick, "Give Ennis a hand, will you? I'll put the word out. Having the sergeant major hunting them down should give these boys a scare."

"Agreed," said Merrick. Kippler and Garrett waddled by, lugging a case of mortar shells. "Kip, take over. I need to go flex my company duties and smash a few heads."

"Copy that, sir." Merrick felt for Ennis's predicament, and he agreed with the man's assessment. If anyone could handle the Daredevils, it was Soras Kippler.

* * *

Commander Janneth Batano was a towering woman, standing almost a full head above Crassus. Watching from the far side of the hololith chart, Armand Lester wondered if she would scrape the ceiling if she put her helmet on. He quietly asked as much of Murtonn, eliciting a snigger from his adjutant. He basked in the command center's chilly air conditioning. It was a welcome reprieve from Calderis's blazing sun.

The Tithes and Administration Center stood out from the rest of Calderis's adobe sandstone buildings in the way only a giant grey monolith of ceramite and rockcrete could. It was a slab of modernity amidst a world trapped in the past, like a meteor had crashed in the city center without the locals noticing. Lester reckoned most Calderans didn't even realize that the governor actually ran interplanetary affairs from an orbiting satellite, just dictating his will through messengers from the HQ.

The map room was abuzz with adjutants and attendants, all running messages from one table to another while analysts, scribes and tacticians oversaw topographical charts of Calderis. Servitors ambled between power banks while guardsmen stood at attention by the entrances. In the dark corners of the room, Commissars like Gardus silently watched the proceedings.

Batano tapped her forehead the same way Nirobe had, and then signed the Aquila before offering her hand to Crassus. "We are blessed to have you, colonel," she said, her voice deeper than Lester had imagined it would be.

"I go where the Imperium demands, Commander," Crassus replied, "I understand you were granted total command of forces on Calderis."

"It was not my first choice," Batano said coolly, "Meridian is the true heart of the subsector. Naturally the senior commanders gravitate towards her, and the glory to be had there. Calderis is an artery, far less appealing but no less vital to survival. My personal feelings aside, I will do my duty to the fullest of my ability."

"I don't doubt that, Commander," said Crassus, "And if my comments offended, I apologize."

"For what?" Batano snorted. "Don't take blame where there is none. You blame that which forces the hand, not the hand itself. We may not share the capital's grand battles, but our work here is vital. The 99F shall earn their glory, here or elsewhere, but it will be ours. The Imperium shall win this war, and I have no doubt you and I shall play a vital role in that."

"So the Emperor demands, and so we shall do, Commander." Armand quietly nodded his approval for Crassus along with the rest of the staff.

A servitor slowly hobbled towards Batano, its emaciated legs dragged along by the augmetic harness grafted to its waist. She took a script from the servitor's withered hand and presented it to the Vendolanders. "I make it a point to meet each regiment's command staff personally, Colonel. I find the best way to measure the quality of a unit is by its leader." She stepped around the chart table and handed him the script. Unfazed by the giant before him, Crassus calmly accepted the note and inspected the text.

"I see a good leader in you, Ertrand Crassus." Batano motioned to the script. "Your first orders. I find myself facing a growing disturbance. Long distance reconnaissance to measure a potential threat."

"Armoured recon?" Crassus asked. "With respect, that is not my men's expertise."

"That's not what I need, colonel," said Batano, "I need a show of force. Recently our promethium convoys have been intercepted and attacked by an unidentified foe. The only thing that our reports are certain of is that they are human. We believe they may be tribal."

Lester's eyes lit up. Tribal Calderans. "The Astartes recruiting tribes," he murmured to Murtonn. "They collect savage youths and turn them into angels."

Murtonn looked shocked. "You mean they're human, like us? I thought they were divine."

"They _are_ divine."

"But sir, you just said-"

"I did, and you will be quiet about it. Is that clear, adjutant?"

Murtonn straightened up. "Perfectly, sir."

Batano flicked through the script and continued, "One of the Siwal Desert tribes has already shown itself to be untrustworthy, and I have issued a shoot on sight order. You however, will head southeast. I don't want our shipments from the Tangier promethium fields compromised by the tribes in the high mountain passes. They're hardy warriors, Colonel. Not even the Tyranids could root them from their mountaintop strongholds."

"So our orders, Commander?" Crassus said. He ignored the mutterings among his staff. The thought of going against Astartes recruiting tribes clearly did not sit well with some of them.

"Make contact with the tribals in the Tangier region and convince them to form an alliance with us. If they refuse to back down, destroy them. The Blood Ravens may recruit from this subsector, but Calderis is an Imperial world first. Its continued survival supersedes the needs of even the Astartes. If Calderis's refineries fall, our supply lines will be cut, and this crusade will be starved of fuel and fail."

* * *

The dice clinked as they bounced across the metal crate doubling for the guardsmen as a table. One trooper, his face fresh an unscarred, whooped with satisfaction as his dice roll beat his opponent's, sitting across from him. The crowd cheered. Scrip exchanged hands, curses were uttered, fortunes were reversed, and animosity grew. They were a motley group, guardsmen from several regiments. Huddled as they were under the low canvas roof, they weren't exactly being inconspicuous. Even among the rowdy and often hectic tent villages of the civilian baggage trains, the gamblers stood out by their sheer volume.

It took Merrick two seconds to identify a number of olive green Vendoland uniforms in the throng.

Ennis to his right, the two grenadiers pushed into the throng, barking threats and raising elbows as they broke up the crowd. One soldier decided to throw a punch and received a broken nose, courtesy of Ennis. Soon the rest of the troopers scattered, but not before Merrick and Ennis had grabbed the straps of several Vendolanders, reining them in like a team of cyber-mastiffs.

"Hard to believe any of us were ever as stupid as you lot are," Merrick growled as he threw a pair of rookies to the dirt. "Who the hell do you think you are, going awol on your first deployment? The Commissariat would have your heads if they got here first."

"I know who I am," said one petulant whelp, wiping blood and spit from his lip. "I'm Astra Militarum."

" _Astra Militarum_?" Merrick repeated, "Is that what they're calling it now at basic?" He and Ennis shared an amused look, before he knelt down and offered the lad his hand. "You're in the Guard now, son."


End file.
